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Summary:
Having discovered the Romulan links to the Xindi, Admiral Archer
dispatches Endeavour to the Delphic Expanse to uncover the
truth. Part 1 of 2.

Disclaimer: I own nada.

Wicked opening sequence by Chrisis1033.

The revised look of the Endeavour was originally developed by Mark Ward for the NX Class Mod Pack for Bridge Commander, although it was credited as the NCC-05 Atlantis. Mr. Ward has graciously given me permission to use this “skin” for the look of Endeavour – if I had discovered this thing before writing Vigrid, the -06 would have looked like this all along.

I am also heavily influenced by Doug Drexler's
wicked awesome NX-01 refit. It too can pass for what Endeavour
looks like.

This is the sequel to Endeavour: Medea. It'll be a little difficult to follow without reading that first. Like my previous fics, I'm writing this as prose and using the basic screenplay format (Teaser + 5 acts)

Act TWO

Captain’s starlog, February 27th, 2158. We are less than three
hours away from the planet where the Xindi Council met. At Commander
Eisler’s suggestion, we’re making a stealth approach. All personnel
are at alert condition yellow. With any luck, though, this won’t turn
into a repeat of the last time we were here.

It was … horrible.

The planet hung silently against the dark void,
jagged scars and immense impact craters visible even from this
distance. Violent, angry storms raged across the surface of the world,
some measuring hundreds of kilometers in diameter. Where before, when
Enterprise came here so many lifetimes ago, some minimal life
signs had been detected even though the Council chambers were
concealed, now there was nothing alive, not even bacteria.

Above the ugly brown and gray planet, things
appeared even worse. Broken husks of long dead starships were
everywhere, many already captured in slowly decaying orbits that would
carry them to the surface of the shattered world, but even more of
them floated at the very periphery of the planet’s gravity well. Two
immense space platforms of a disturbingly alien design were still
mostly intact and anchored at what would likely be the L1
or L2 Lagrangian points, but
the gaping holes in their hulls and exposed superstructure were clear
indications that they were no longer operational.

Selina Mayweather thought she was going to be sick.

She had not moved from the Helm station for the
last six hours, principally due to the level of expertise needed to
creep into the Xindi system undetected, but also because she had
little else to do aboard Endeavour. Despite having been aboard
the ship for nearly five months, she still felt like an outsider and
hadn’t made a real effort to make any friends with her crewmates. They
were simply co-workers, senior officers to obey or junior officers and
enlisted personnel to command. This way, she reflected, there wasn’t a
chance of her getting attached to anyone and she wouldn’t be ripped
apart when they died…

In that moment, it took every gram of her willpower
to avoid thinking about Rashid.

“What do you have, T’Pol?” the captain asked from
his command chair. He sounded grim, angry and tired, all at the same
time, and though he was only a few years older than Lina, she couldn’t
help but to think that he reminded her far too much of her late
father.

“No life signs detected,” the Vulcan first officer
replied. Apart from the commander’s voice, the chirp of her sensor
console, and the subtle hum of the ship’s engines, the bridge was
deathly silent. Lina glanced quickly to her left – Lieutenant
Commander Sato was staring at the viewscreen with a conflicted
expression on her face, which, if Travis’ letters had been accurate,
probably wasn’t a surprise. The Xindi had tortured Sato, after
all. “Preliminary scans indicate that this destruction is months old,”
T’Pol continued.

“Dammit.” The shift of cloth warned Lina that
Captain Tucker had pushed himself to his feet. “What’s the planetary
status?” he asked.

“I do not advise a landing party, Captain,” T’Pol
replied immediately. “Radiation levels are too high for environment
suits to be effective.”

“We could try one of the more intact starships,”
Commander Eisler suggested, his gruff, accented voice low and hard.
Automatically, Lina glanced toward his station, noting without
surprise that he hardly seemed bothered by the sheer scope of the
damage before them. “At worst,” the tactical officer added, “we might
be able to obtain additional intelligence on the combatants.” The
captain grunted.

“T’Pol?” he asked.

“There are four viable vessels,” she declared. On
the main viewer, a quartet of broken starships was suddenly outlined
by digital brackets. “All have suffered extensive structural damage,”
the Vulcan said in her no-nonsense manner. Lina tapped out a quick
command on her console.

“There’s a lot of debris around those ships,” she
pointed out, “and it looks like only one of them has a functional
docking port.” Too late, she realized that her comment sounded
defensive, as if she doubted her ability to maneuver Endeavour
through the debris field, but just as quickly, Lina silently
acknowledged that she was merely making a point. Even with the
deflection array and hull polarization system both operating at one
hundred percent, there was a strong possibility of at least some minor
hull damage.

“Confirmed,” T’Pol declared less than a heartbeat
later. “I recommend we use the transporter to deploy the landing
party.”

“Agreed,” Eisler said instantly. “STAB Team first
to conduct a security sweep, then an engineering team to assess what
we can recover.”

“Do it,” Captain Tucker ordered. “T’Pol, I want-“

“Sensors to be manned at all times,” the Vulcan
finished wryly. “Yes, Captain.”

“Rick-“

“Reports on the hour,” Eisler finished, his tone as
dry as T’Pol’s. “No unnecessary risks. Yes, sir.” The captain
chuckled.

“At least allow me the illusion of being in command
here,” Tucker said, his comment breaking the tense mood.

Lina spent another hour and a half at her station,
watching in relative silence as the landing party began their search.
She was only vaguely surprised that Commander Eisler did not lead the
mission – he had a tendency to take a more hands-on approach on these
sorts of missions than Lina would even consider – but ever since his
promotion to full commander prior to their departure for the Expanse,
he’d started easing himself out of field operations. She spent only a
few moments briefing Lieutenant Zhao when the navigation officer
arrived to relieve her and then made a beeline for the mess deck; by
accident, Lina had missed lunch and her stomach was rumbling.

To her silent relief, the dining facility was
relatively empty for a change, likely due to Commander Eisler putting
the numerous security troopers to work, which allowed her to find a
discreet, empty table near one of the corners so she could focus on
her food and the work still ahead of her. Lina ate robotically, barely
noticing the taste of whatever it was she’d grabbed, all the while
scanning through the department memos and status reports on her PADD.
Warrant Officer Gray’s latest complaint revolved around the two
assault re-entry crafts and their level of maintenance; as the ‘sky
boss’ – a nonsensical title, Lina thought, if there ever was one – he
oversaw every facet of ARC and shuttlepod activity, whether it was
operational or repairs, and he was, to Mayweather’s continued
frustration, the biggest thorn in her side.

She had nearly finished her latest response to Gray
– no, he could not schedule ARC One for a level ten diagnostic
without first getting Commander Hess’ clearance since it would be her
personnel doing the work, and yes, she would speak with the first
officer about Commander Eisler’s tendency to arbitrarily reassign the
sky boss’ personnel – when she realized that the dining facility was
beginning to fill up. Most of the crew entering appeared to be
security and Selina couldn’t help but to notice how Ensign Stiles, as
sullen as normal, automatically isolated himself from the very people
he was supposed to be commanding. Once he had his food, he marched to
a corner table and took a seat, glaring at the starfield beyond like
it was responsible for his status as persona non grata aboard
the ship. No one bothered to approach him and more than a few gave him
subtle looks of contempt. Lina had heard the rumors about how Eisler
publicly chewed the ensign out but even before then, she’d noticed his
steadfast refusal to act like part of a team. Stiles was, in every
sense of the word, alone.

And abruptly, Selina realized she was no different.

It was not as if no one aboard had made overtures
toward her. Commander Hess had reached out when she first joined
Endeavour’s crew, but thanks to her stupid brother’s letters, Lina
had immediately thought that Hess was trying to get into her pants and
had gone out of her way to avoid the chief engineer unless duty
demanded it. Later, when Lieutenant Commander Sato briefly joined the
crew, she’d also tried to be friendly, several times beginning
conversations with anecdotes about Travis, but Selina had always come
up with an excuse why she couldn’t talk. In both cases, the women in
question were intelligent enough to recognize that their overtures
weren’t appreciated and had backed off, which resulted in the junior
officers following suit. For all intents and purposes, Selina didn’t
have a single friend aboard Endeavour. She was utterly and
completely alone.

Again.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the direction her
thoughts were taking her, she quickly bussed her tray and exited the
dining facility. Her cabin held no interest to her – the pictures that
she’d put up of her father, Travis and her late husband now seemed to
exist only as reminders of a future she would never see. Thor’s Cradle
was nearly a year and a half in the past, but the memory of Rashid’s
last words to her – It’ll be fine, Lina. Paul needs one of us to
look after him and your mother needs you on the Horizon while
she recovers – continued to haunt her. Never again would her
stupid husband whistle that ridiculous off-key tune while he was
working. Never again would she wake in the middle of the night to find
that he’d stolen the covers again. Never again would she feel his
hands on her skin or his lips against hers.

Never again.

This was what you wanted, she told herself
as she wandered the corridors of Endeavour. Stay aloof,
she’d originally decided, and keep your distance. Don’t let
yourself get attached to anyone. You don’t need anyone else. Friends
are a luxury, not a necessity. At the time, they seemed to be wise
words but were cold comfort when she was sitting in the dark, staring
at the bulkhead or watching one of Travis’ last vid-letters for the
hundredth time.

“Aren’t you off-duty?” Lieutenant Commander Ricker
asked when Lina entered the command center an eternity later. The
junior science officer appeared mostly engrossed in what looked to be
sensor readings, but had discarded her duty jacket. A two-dimensional
representation of the Xindi system was displayed on the main viewer
with hundreds of small mass signatures already identified. Currently,
one of the larger silhouettes was enclosed by a flashing reticle,
above which was a graphical representation for a deployed STAB team.

“Aren’t you?” Lina retorted as she joined Ricker at
the main console. “I was bored and wanted to do something productive,”
Mayweather added. “What are you doing?”

“Tagging all of the sensor data,” Ricker said. She
tapped a rapid command into the system and a smaller reticle flashed.
“I’m hoping to find something useful,” she added a moment later. At
Lina’s glance, Ricker frowned. “The Roughnecks are coming up empty,”
she said. “None of the ship’s they’ve boarded are helping – all we’ve
been able to figure out so far is that the Xindi themselves are
responsible for this mess.”

“Ah.” Lina was silent for a long moment while she
watched Ricker work. “This looks … boring.”

“You have no idea,” Ricker muttered. She
manipulated her controls to move the sensor reticle to another
unmarked signature. “T’Pol normally handles this sort of thing,” she
said, “but she’s busy with data analysis…” Abruptly, the science
officer frowned and gave Lina a sidelong look. “Is everything okay?”
she asked hesitantly. “You’re usually not very …”

“Friendly?” Lina finished with a sour look on her
face. She glanced away, wondering how much to tell the other woman.
“My brother, Travis, died at Elysium,” she finally said, flinching
fractionally at the sharp intake of breath she heard from Ricker, “and
I lost my husband at the Cradle.”

“I’m sorry,” Ricker said softly. She forced a
smile. “I lost someone there too,” she admitted sadly. “We weren’t
married – hell, he wasn’t even an officer and I think he would run
screaming if I even floated the idea – but …” Her board chirped and
Ricker tapped a quick command. “I think everyone aboard has lost
someone somewhere since this stupid war began,” she said bitterly.

“Work helps,” Lina said tightly. The immense
pressure that had been riding her shoulders seemed to have lifted
slightly, though she might have just imagined it. She gestured toward
the screen. “Show me what to do,” she said, “and I’ll give you a
hand.” Ricker smiled.

“That,” she said brightly, “I can do.”

=/\= =/\=

It was on days like this that he feared he couldn’t do this job.

His head pounding, Jonathan Archer leaned back in
his chair and fought the urge to scream as he disconnected the
connection to the Vulcan consulate. I hate this damned job, he
snarled mentally as he pushed himself out of his chair and stretched.
Muscles too long frozen in the same position protested and he groaned,
once more lamenting his current position in life. Ever since the
president appointed him to Commander-in-Chief, Starfleet, he could
count on one hand the number of times he’d had a full night’s sleep.

“I apologize, Admiral,” Ambassador V’Lar had
informed him only moments before, her tone sincere, “but the Fullara
technique does not seem effective on your security personnel.” Jon had
somehow managed to keep from cursing although he knew his
disappointment and frustration had been stamped on his face. He had
absolutely no idea what to do. The security personnel previously
assigned to Thomas Gardner were in perfect health apart from their
continued inability to perceive Rajiin, digitally or physically, but
Jon knew that they remained a security risk. What if the Oran’taku had
done something else to them, something the Vulcans couldn’t detect?
How could he dare risk anyone else’s life on the chance that the
fifteen men and three women were now unknowing sleeper agents? On the
heels of that thought came another: what right did he have to imprison
them when they hadn’t done anything wrong? For all he knew, the only
thing she’d done to them was make it so they couldn’t see her. How
could he possibly ruin their careers on what might amount to a
paranoid fear?

Quite easily, he realized with great
disgust. The needs of the many once more outweighed the needs of the
few and he scribbled a quick signature on new orders that would
reassign all of these personnel to the consulate on Vulcan where they
could be discreetly monitored for any hints of brainwashing.

The latest status reports of the fleet crawled down
one of the five wall monitors in his office, and Jon paused before it,
a frown on his face. Four months had elapsed since the Romulan attack
on Earth, one hundred and twenty-five days since the last sign of the
aliens that had viciously attacked humanity, and Archer couldn’t shake
the feeling that this was simply the calm before the storm. There were
others in Command who disagreed, none more vociferously than his Vice
Chief of Naval Operations, Wang Yan, although Jon was thoroughly
convinced that Wang was saying so simply because he disagreed on
virtually every single policy that Archer supported.

His study of the fleet status yielded little
positive. The shipyards were on track to deploy another trio of
Daedalus-classes – the Acheron, the Thermopylae, and
the Moscow – which would bring the total fleet strength to
barely twenty of the heavier, faster ships, not including Endeavour
or Discovery, both of which remained the pinnacle of
efficiency, or the still capable but sadly archaic Icelands.
Work continued on the two new Endeavour-classes, Gagarin
and Shenzhou, and if they were very, very lucky, one or perhaps
both of them would complete their warp trials by the middle of March.
Two more of that class – Buran and Komarov – were on the
drafting table, with some of the brightest minds in Starfleet trying
to find a faster way to construct the ships.

And then, there was the Defiant.

Only a handful of personnel
even knew about the plans for the new class of ships and each one had
been handpicked by Jon himself for capability, discretion and
out-of-the-box thinking. Daniel Jeffries, the son of the late admiral
who had headed first the warp five and then later the warp six program
before his death, was heading up the research into the initial design,
and not a day didn’t pass that Jon did not seriously consider
pulling both Trip and T’Pol off Endeavour to head up the
construction of the starship. On one hand, he knew that they were
doing a necessary job on the NC-06 – Endeavour wasn’t even two
years old but was already considered by most fleet officers to be the
duty station of choice – but on the other, Archer couldn’t think of
anyone in the entire quadrant better qualified to handle the Defiant
Project.

Jon blew out a deep breath and wondered if he could
bring himself to actually remove Trip from command of Endeavour.
Somehow, he doubted it.

The chirp of his door annunciator dragged him out
of his reflection, and Archer straightened his stance. A glance at a
nearby chronometer confirmed that it was time for his daily briefing
with the senior admirals regarding fleet readiness and Jon knew he was
going to need all the strength he could muster to avoid losing his
temper.

“Enter,” he called out. Wang entered first,
followed by Admiral Burnside Clapp, and a half dozen other officers
whom Jon barely acknowledged beyond a quick nod of greeting. His mood
soured even further when Park Min-ho, the new Defense Minister
recently appointed to the position by President Molyneux in the wake
of the Romulan attack on Earth, followed the admirals in. As usual,
the minster was wearing an impeccable suit that probably cost more
than a shuttlepod and an expression so dark that it bordered on
hateful.

“Let’s get started,” Jon said without preamble. He
gestured toward the large conference table, inwardly fighting the
desire to just throw in the towel. Every day that passed reminded him
once more that he was a pilot by training, not an administrator or,
God forbid, a politician.

For the next two hours, he
played referee to the various A-type personalities that made up the
admiralty as they bickered and argued over the strategic overview of
the war. Wang and Burnside Clapp were at one another’s throats once
more, with Commodore Domeij, the new Special Warfare Commander,
alternately siding first with one, then with the other. The
reconstitution of the fleet was the principal point of contention,
with pretty much everyone but Burnside Clapp opposing Jon’s decision
to break the ships down into smaller, lighter, faster strike groups.

“My decision is final,” Archer was finally forced
to declare sharply. “Our sole advantage is speed and mobility,” he
pointed out darkly, “and I will not give that up in favor of obsolete
tactics that are proven to fail.” When Wang’s eyes narrowed, Jon
pinned him with a glare. “Need I remind you of Acheron?” he asked.

Evidently, he did.

“That was a failure of planning,” Wang quickly
argued, “not of fleet composition.” He drew in a breath to add more
but Minister Park abruptly spoke up for the first time.

“I believe,” the defense minister said softly, his
voice carrying, “that Admiral Archer’s decision in this matter is the
correct one.” As one, the flag officers gave the sole civilian present
their full attention, though Jon could see differing reactions to the
man’s words. Wang seethed but bit back his frustration, while Domeij
looked at the minister like he was something to be scraped off of his
boots. Recently promoted Commodore Assad actually seemed surprised
that the defense minister was speaking and the expression of distrust
on Burnside Clapp’s face was so obvious that Archer doubted anyone
wasn’t aware of the admiral’s thoughts.

“Thank you, Minister,” Jon said flatly before
lifting another PADD off the table. “In light of our continued
inability to get effective intelligence on the Romulans,” he
continued, “I’ve dispatched the Hyperion on a scouting run to
Zeta Reticuli.”

“For God’s sake, Archer,” Wang snapped, his eyes
flashing, “you can’t keep doing this!” The other admirals glanced
away, most visibly uncomfortable with Wang’s outburst but more than a
few, including Burnside Clapp to Jon’s surprise, seeming to agree with
the V-CNO. “First you send Endeavour into the Expanse without
consulting any of us and now this?”

“That will be enough, Admiral,” Jon barked.
He locked eyes with the vice chief of naval operations.

Wang looked away first.

“Hyperion’s commander has explicit orders to
maintain as low a profile as possible,” Archer said. “We need to know
what the Romulans are up to and we need to know now.”

“Agreed,” Burnside Clapp interjected, “but I have
to question your decision to use Hyperion.” He shook his head.
“Discovery is in-system for refit and Aubrey would have been a
better choice for this.” Jon shook his head.

“No, he wouldn’t,” he said. Wang bristled – Jack
Aubrey had served under him for years and the two were friends of a
sort – but Jon ignored him. “Hyperion is a Daedalus,” he
stated calmly, hating himself just a little bit for the words about to
come out of his mouth. “If the recon fails,” Archer pointed out
harshly, “we lose a Daedalus. Could we afford to lose one of
the only remaining NX’s?”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you
sent Endeavour off on a wild goose chase,” Wang muttered.

“I see your point,” Burnside Clapp said, “but Hsiao
is just a lieutenant commander. Is he really up for this?”

“He is,” the bearded man in the far corner of the
office said. Command Master Chief Stefan Apostolaki was the
senior-most enlisted man in Starfleet, and had served terms with both
the MACOs and UESPA before retiring three months before Elysium. The
late Admiral Gardner had requested Apostolaki to return to oversee the
MACO-Starfleet integration, and Jon had later asked him to remain on
active service until the war was over. As far as Archer knew, there
wasn’t a single person in Starfleet who didn’t respect Apostolaki. “I
spoke to his senior chiefs before Hyperion launched,”
Apostolaki added, “and they were unanimous in their respect for
Commander Hsiao.”

“Thank you, Master Chief,” Jon said, barely able to
hide his smile. It was amazing how just a few words from Apostolaki
had killed any opposition to Hsiao’s assignment. Even Wang’s
expression had changed to one of acceptance. “Moving on,” Archer
continued a heartbeat later. “We still need to address who will
captain Gagarin and Shenzhou when they deploy.” The
comment started a firestorm of debate as the officers all began
jockeying to name their personal favorites for the position. Even
Minister Park offered a few suggestions, his familiarity with the
senior command echelon of Starfleet yet another hint that he was more
hands-on than his predecessor.

T’Pol’s name was conspicuously absent.

Jon knew the reasons – as far as most of the
officers present were concerned, she was not an option simply because
she hadn't been in Starfleet long enough, not to mention the fact that
she was a Vulcan. There had nearly been a revolt in the officer corps
when Admiral Forrest gave her a commission as a full commander
following the Expanse mission, and Archer couldn’t imagine how they’d
react if he suggested they promote her to captain. Hell, most of them
looked at him cross-eyed because they felt his advancement was
too rapid.

Suddenly reminded of the conversation he’d had with
Trip shortly before Acheron, Jon decided to keep his opinion about
T’Pol’s qualities to himself. He knew that, if he asked it of his
former first officer, she would very likely accept out of a sense of
duty rather than a sincere desire for her own command, but at the same
time, he knew that such a request would drive an irreparable breach
between him and Trip. Their friendship had barely survived the
cogenitor incident or Archer’s distance in the Expanse, and he knew
that it couldn’t take many more hits.

By the time the admirals departed, there was a
shortlist of names for consideration for the two ships and Jon waited
until he was alone in his office to slump back in his chair. The PADD
with the officers – captains and commanders, all with a dozen reasons
to recommend them and twice that to reject them – he tossed aside
without bothering to give it a second look. He rose from his chair
once more and strode from the office, pausing only long enough to
secure it behind him. Right now, he had to move, had to get some
exercise and get his blood pumping or his head would explode. Looking
over a list of officers to determine which of them would have the job
Jon wanted was the last thing in the world he had a desire to do.

There would be time for it later.

=/\= =/\=

There was no more
time.

His face set in an angry scowl, Thy’lek Hravishran
th’Zoarhi leaned forward in his command chair and studied the tactical
readout on the main viewscreen. In terms of simple numbers, it was an
even match – he had sixteen ships under his command, including the
Kolari, and there were an equal number defending the objective –
but that was where the similarities ended. His battlegroup was
heavier, tougher, faster and with bigger guns, not to mention his
captains were all more experienced. Only a fool would willingly stand
against them in obsolete cruisers that should have left the service
decades ago.

A fool … or a loyalist.

“Go to condition black,” Shran ordered tersely, and
his bridge crew scrambled to obey. None of them seemed particularly
concerned that they were on the verge of spilling Andorian blood, but
that was not much of a surprise. Theirs was an especially belligerent
species, not known for their deep culture or peaceful nature. The only
thing hot about Andoria, it was said, was the tempers of its
inhabitants. Once, Shran had been the foremost among them, as likely
to respond to a friendly greeting with naked violence as he was to
simply nod, but time and bitter experience had tempered him, forced
him to evolve and turned him into a creature that actually considered
the effects of his actions.

And oh, how he hated it.

“Has there been any response to our demands?” he
asked. His newly appointed first officer glowered sullenly.

“None, Commander,” Keval said flatly. “They are
maneuvering into defensive positions – I think they mean to fight us.”

Shran sighed.

He had desperately hoped to avoid this – the taking
of this outpost was a necessary element in his overall plan, but he
had not factored in the stupidity of his foes. They were outgunned and
outclassed in every way, and Shran had expected them to act
rationally. Retreat in the face of a superior foe was the only option.

Would you have retreated? Jhamel’s question
drifted across his consciousness from light years away – she had been
displeased at his intention to leave her in a safe place while he
waged his war, but the revulsion she felt toward violence led to her
agreement – and Shran grimaced. Of course he wouldn’t have quit the
field – only a coward fled battle. So then, he told himself
wryly, I must win this engagement through diplomacy.

Jhamel laughed.

“Channel open,” Shran demanded. Keval gave him
another sidelong look – he had been doing that rather frequently of
late, ever since he first set eyes upon Jhamel, and it was beginning
to get annoying – but grudgingly obeyed. “To loyalist forces,” Shran
said into the comm-line, “I order you to stand down.”

“We take no instructions from a traitor,” came an
instant, fiery response. Shran smiled and gestured for Keval to
identify the source of the transmission.

“And no traitor issues these orders,” Shran
replied. “I represent a duly established Assembly, elected in
abstentia.” On the main viewscreen, one of the old cruisers was
suddenly enclosed by a bright blue digital bracket. “As the Sword of
this Assembly, Commander Telthos,” Shran continued, identifying the
speaker with a smile on his lips, “it is within my rights to demand
your immediate and unconditional surrender. You know this.”

“I’ll be dead before I surrender to the likes of
you,” Commander Telthos retorted. His image abruptly appeared on the
main viewscreen. Once a large thaan, Telthos’ muscle was now
running to fat and his jowls shook as he continued his rant. “This …
Assembly of yours is no such thing,” he spat. “You and yours are
traitors and will die as traitors!”

“Energy spike!” Keval exclaimed suddenly and Shran
felt the last vestiges of hope for a non-violent resolution wither and
die as Telthos’ opening barrage splattered harmlessly against the
Kolari’s shields. This is why your Way is not for me, he
lamented to Jhamel. Already, he could feel her begin to grieve for
those about to die.

He did not have the luxury of her compassion.

“Send to all ships,” he announced after
double-checking that he was broadcasting on an open channel, “any ship
that powers down its weapon systems is to be left intact.” He speared
Telthos with a black look. “All others, destroy them.”

Twenty light years away, Jhamel began to weep.

It was over nearly before it began. The lead
defense crafts attacked in a traditional spearhead wedge, with
Telthos’ antiquated cruiser at the very tip of the formation, while
the smaller ships assaulted the flanks of Shran’s battlegroup. A
familiar tactic, the spearhead was far too conservative and had the
immediate result of giving Shran’s two heavier ships – his own
Kolari and the Dantari – clear shots at the slower moving
trail ships. The space over the planetary body was suddenly alive with
torpedoes as Shran’s battlegroup immediately counterattacked. Ignoring
the spearhead entirely, he drove his force straight into the heart of
the loyalist formation. Particle cannons thrummed heavily,
punching completely through the ineffective defenses of the slower
ships and ripping them apart. Two died instantly, vanishing in violent
explosions that ripped them apart. A third light cruiser shuddered
under the concentrated barrage before suddenly breaking away from the
engagement entirely, its engines flickering and sputtering
sporadically.

Reeling from the battlegroup’s assault, the
defending ships broke formation and scattered, any hint of discipline
gone in the face of their utter destruction. Shran ignored most of the
fleeing craft – they weren’t a threat to the rebellion and most of
them were little more than followers – and concentrated his force’s
firepower against Telthos’ cruiser. It was quite probably
unnecessarily cruel – It is! Jhamel mindwept – but as the head
of those who had opposed the Sword of the Assembly, Telthos had to be
dealt with in the most permanent way possible.

The cruiser rocked and trembled as pinpoint fire
from the particle cannons burned away the armor plating and torpedoes
corkscrewed through the silent void to detonate against the hull.
Explosions ravaged the ship, tearing open great gaping holes that
spilled out precious oxygen and fragile bodies. Another swarm of the
lethal ordinance blew the port winglet completely off, instantly
setting of a chain reaction of secondary explosions throughout the
entire ship.

Bare seconds later, the cruiser was little more
than an expanding cloud of debris.

“Hard about,” Shran snapped through a clenched jaw.
Jhamel was sobbing at the senseless waste of life and her grief was
threatening to overwhelm his self control. “Damage report!”

“All systems functioning,” the engineering officer
announced. Shran gave her a dark look – he needed more information
than that! – and she visibly quailed before his fury. “Deflector
screens holding at fifty percent,” she stated quickly. “Weapons still
at ninety percent efficiency.” Shran shifted his attention to Keval.

“Fleet status!” he growled.

“No losses,” came the instant response. “Four
hostiles have powered down their weapons and are retreating from the
engagement zone.”

“And the others?” Shran asked. When Keval shook his
head, Shran could feel Jhamel cry out once more. He pushed it down,
swallowed the bile churning in his stomach, and ignored the
self-loathing that was only partially his. “My orders stand,” he
hissed. “Engage and destroy.”

Another thirty minutes passed before the last of
the hostiles were finally neutralized, and the process cost Shran a
good ship and a better crew which left him in an even fouler mood than
before. He knew that he should be celebrating – one cruiser lost in an
engagement with twelve hostiles that ended with seven destroyed and
five captured was a victory by any definition – but he felt violently
sick. How many of his fellow Guardsmen had just died at his orders?
How many would have willingly joined the cause but were never given
the opportunity because their commanders were snowblinded fools?

“A good day,” Keval said an eternity later, once
they had stood down from condition black. He was all smiles and giddy
excitement.

“Was it?” Shran asked softly. “Five hundred and
fifty of our brothers and sisters died here today,” he pointed out
darkly. “This was no victory … it was a tragedy.”

“Today,” he said coldly, “we have inflicted more
casualties upon the Andorian people than the Vulcans accomplished in
two centuries.” Keval recoiled at the remark and a hush fell upon the
bridge. “We do what must be done to overthrow the corrupt Council but
we will not … we must not take joy in this.” He took a step
away before nodding toward the wreckage filling the viewscreen. “Those
that oppose us will fight harder now,” he said. “The blood we shed
today is but just a taste of what is to come.”

Without another word, he strode away from the
command deck. Someday, he knew that he would be able to look back on
this battle as the necessary evil it was. Those that were lost would
be set to rest and, if he was fortunate, Shran knew that he would
finally be able to accept that their deaths were part of the Great
Tapestry. And on that day, he would be able to accept that he had not
slain these soldiers but that their fates were woven by Uzaveh the
Infinite before the stars were born.

Someday, perhaps, but not today.

=/\= =/\=

The day was already
proving to be a taxing one.

They had arrived at the former Skagaran colony
twenty-five standard hours earlier. Originally, there had been no
plans to re-visit this planet, but upon finding the Xindi council
world an abandoned ruin, Commander Eisler had recommended they
establish a forward operating base for their continued explorations of
the Expanse. His reasoning had been quite logical: not only would the
construction of such a base allow them to offload a considerable
number of the security personnel he had taken from the three
Daedalus-classes assigned to the Endeavour strike group,
this location was ideally suited for their needs. In addition to
providing a spot for the crew to enjoy recreation on a planetary
surface, the forward operating base also served a more necessary
function – the security personnel left behind were tasked with gaining
additional supplies, whether through barter with the human and
Skagaran descendants on the planet or through direct agricultural
activities.

T’Pol had been initially surprised at the
commander’s suggestion, especially as it indicated a level of
strategic planning she had not been prepared for. When she had
grudgingly agreed to Eisler’s original request to bring the additional
security personnel aboard Endeavour, she had done so believing
that he simply desired to augment the capabilities of the Roughnecks,
but now, it was becoming clear that he had been planning on the
establishment of this forward operating base from the beginning.

The exact location of the FOB – as the commander
referred to it – was isolated and in an especially difficult to reach
location on the planet without the use of shuttles. By the end of the
first day, the security personnel, augmented by a sizable portion of
the engineering staff and any other crewmembers not on duty, had
erected a series of concrete barriers that enclosed the entire
location and would provide more than effective defense against the
small arms possessed by the locals planetside. Commander Eisler was
not satisfied, however, and T’Pol observed with no small amount of
interest as he directed the construction of additional defensive
structures at key locations, utilizing Endeavour’s spare
resources to build watchtowers at each of the four corners of the
walled compound. Only then did he allow tents to be placed.

Most of the security personnel had remained on-site
overnight, as did a surprising number of the other Endeavour
crewmembers. By planetary dawn, when T’Pol accompanied Trip to visit
the FOB, the NC-06 was operating on barely a skeleton crew. It was
most illogical – in her experience, T’Pol had found humans were
generally uninterested in extensive physical labor while ‘off-duty’
but every officer or crewman who requested leave to visit the planet
did so knowing that Commander Eisler would put them to work at the
forward operating base.

“Somebody’s been busy,” Trip remarked as their
shuttlepod banked through the planetary cloud cover and the FOB came
into sight. A fifth watchtower had been added during the night.
Squatting at the base of this tower was a low building that had been
assembled from pre-fab materials that had been in Endeavour
storage since before launch but had never actually been used. Both of
the assault re-entry vehicles were parked within the confines of the
FOB and it appeared that at least one guard was assigned to each of
the vessels to prevent unauthorized access.

“Indeed,” T’Pol remarked before returning her
attention to the PADD in her hands. For the last hour, she had been
reviewing Commander Eisler’s list of goals for the operating base and
was, thus far, unable to discern any flaws in his strategic outline.
Busy did not begin to describe his efforts.

Warrant Officer Gray landed the shuttlepod on a
wide, empty spot next to the ARCs, and T’Pol barely restrained a sigh
at how quickly Trip reached for the hatch. Like so many of his fellow
humans, he too had been eager to spend time on the planet and, in his
words, ‘get his hands dirty,’ but T’Pol had impressed upon him the
importance of maintaining proper decorum for an officer of his
position.

Or at least, she thought she had done so.

The air outside the shuttlepod was sharp and cooler
than T’Pol was entirely comfortable with, but the rising sun was
already beginning to burn away the early morning fog. Commanders
Eisler and Hess were, as usual, arguing over some trivial point when
T’Pol emerged from the shuttlepod, but there was a strange intensity
between the two that had not been present before.

“Captain, Commander,” Eisler greeted as he
approached. He gave Hess a quick sidelong look – she returned it
instantly without being prompted – but oddly, did not meet the
engineer’s eyes. T’Pol quirked an eyebrow. “The FOB will be fully
operational by tomorrow, sir,” Eisler continued, his hands
automatically vanishing behind his back.

“Looks operational now,” Trip remarked as he
glanced around, pausing to give Hoshi a quick nod. Lieutenant
Commander Sato was laboring alongside Doctors Phlox and Reyes in what
appeared to be a wide strip of dirt T’Pol suspected to be meant for a
garden. All three were laughing about something and T’Pol’s eyebrow
climbed a centimeter higher. She fought the urge to shake her head.

“Der Kommandant isn’t satisfied yet,” Hess said
wryly, her words causing Trip to smirk and the tactical officer to
frown. “I think I’ve talked him out of mining the valley,” she added
with a grin that did not quite touch her eyes.

“That’ll leave us without a chief of the boat,”
Trip pointed out. “Think Mitchell is up to the job?”

“Luckabaugh insists that he is,” Eisler replied.

“All right,” Trip said. “Request approved.” He gave
T’Pol a glance – she returned it without thinking and raised an
eyebrow slightly – before gesturing toward the nearby concrete wall.
“Is all of this necessary?” he asked. “As I recall, the locals weren’t
exactly big threats.”

“Nor were they especially friendly,” Eisler
retorted. He fell into step beside the captain as Trip began walking
through the FOB. T’Pol and Commander Hess followed, with the
engineer’s forced good cheer fading rapidly. Her troubled eyes, T’Pol
realized, were locked on Eisler’s hands that were currently clasped
together in the small of his back. “This location is suitably remote
that any locals will need to be actively seeking us out as opposed to
accidentally stumbling upon us.” He nodded toward the barriers. “The
defenses are a precaution, sir, nothing more.”

“Is leaving one of the ARCs a precaution too?” Trip
asked. He smirked at the sight of several junior officers –
Lieutenants Kornegay, Rostova and Zhao – arguing rather loudly with a
number of the Roughnecks over the placement of their tents. The
security personnel were all male, T’Pol realized, which likely made
this discussion some form of ridiculous human courting ritual.

“A sensible one, sir,” the tactical officer
answered. He went on to explain how the assault re-entry vehicle would
serve as both a defensive asset and a transport craft, but T’Pol paid
only partial attention to his words. Instead, she studied his body
language, hoping to discern what was worrying Commander Hess. Nearly
instantly, T’Pol realized that Eisler’s normally fluid gait was
awkward, almost clumsy at times. His hands shook on occasion, though
he generally kept them hidden from sight by standing at what the
former MACOs called ‘parade rest.’ Even more damning was the subtle
hints of discomfort that periodically flashed across his face – he
concealed them all quite well, but if one knew what to look for, they
were quite obvious.

Which certainly explained Commander Hess’ poorly
concealed concern.

They spent thirty minutes inspecting the base,
during which time T’Pol remained mostly silent as she mulled over the
mounting evidence regarding Commander Eisler’s status. Trip noticed
her distraction, but did not call attention to it and instead focused
on what he privately called his ‘captain’s face.’ Now that she was
giving it more consideration, T’Pol realized that Commander Eisler had
been systematically pulling back from active field exercises for
weeks. He no longer led Roughnecks on landing parties and instead
delegated these tasks to his senior non-commissioned officers. She
also could not recall the last time she had seen the commander in the
gymnasium. Her eyes narrowed suddenly – recently, he had also logged a
considerable amount of time in Sickbay, but she had thought nothing of
it, presuming he was simply coordinating new training regimens with
Doctor Phlox.

She excused herself at the earliest opportunity and
returned to Endeavour aboard the next shuttlepod supply run.
Once aboard, she followed standard procedure by advising Lieutenant
Kimura, the current duty officer, of her presence before returning to
her cabin where she began conducting additional research. Phlox’s
records were distressingly easy to break into – she made a note to
speak to the doctor about the importance of file security; at times,
he was far too trusting for his own good – and T’Pol spent another two
hours studying the data in front of her.

When she was done, she checked in once more –
Lieutenant Commander Riggs had replaced Kimura as watch officer, but
there were still no emergencies requiring her attention – before
opting to meditate. At the back of her mind, she could sense Trip’s
emotions and allowed their warmth to wash over her thoughts. He was
still planetside and had organized some form of sporting event – she
thought it was the same one he and Admiral Archer had played with
Zobral’s clan so many lifetimes ago, but she did not tap too deeply of
their mindlink to assuage her vague curiosity.

Meditation provided her with no answers and T’Pol
emerged from her whitespace still unsettled. She could not help but to
empathize with Commander Eisler’s desire for discretion – had she not
done the same once she learned of the Pa’nar? She would have greatly
preferred that Captain Archer never learn of the condition – but their
current circumstances dictated confrontation. If even a quarter of
what she had read concerning the symptoms of this Krupitzer’s Syndrome
were accurate, the commander could quickly transition from asset to
hindrance. Grimly, T’Pol rose to her feet: she needed more data.

Phlox was back aboard Endeavour barely
twenty minutes later in response to her hail, dirtier than before but
with a brighter smile than T’Pol recalled seeing on him for a very
long time. His good mood faltered and vanished when she cornered him
and began to ask about the Krupitzer’s. Initially, he was defensive,
erroneously believing that she was accusing him of being negligent,
but once he realized she was uninterested in affixing blame, he opened
up rather vociferously.

“I have exhausted every avenue available,” he
finally admitted. “Since this disease is genetic,” he added, “I have
even enlisted the aid of Doctor Soong.” At T’Pol’s upraised eyebrow,
he rushed on. “Discreetly, of course, but I felt that, since he is the
foremost expert in regards to human genetics, he would be the
logical choice of consultants.”

“And your prognosis?” T’Pol asked. Phlox sighed.

“Terminal,” he said. “With Doctor Soong’s
assistance, I have developed a treatment for patients in the early
stages of this disease, but Commander Eisler … the defects on
chromosome four are simply too extensive.” T’Pol nodded, a purely
human gesture she barely realized that she had adopted; in normal
humans, the trinucleotide repeat in the HTT gene appeared between ten
and twenty-eight times, but for Commander Eisler, this repeat was in
excess of one hundred and fifty, and despite the advances in medical
technology, the manipulation of DNA remained a difficult proposition
at best.

After concluding her conversation with Phlox, T’Pol
retreated to her office (which was little more than an unused research
lab on C- Deck) where she considered her options. Trip would need to
be informed of this discovery and she knew it would distress him
considerably. Although he often pretended otherwise, she knew that her
mate liked the commander immensely and considered him more a friend
than a junior officer. In the end, though, she realized that she would
need to speak to the commander first.

Eisler responded to her summons fairly quickly and
from the stance he assumed when he entered, she suspected he had been
warned by Doctor Phlox that she was aware of his situation.

“It has come to my notice,” T’Pol began calmly,
“that you are suffering from a terminal neurological condition.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Commander Eisler replied. His jaw was
clenched tightly and he was staring straight ahead without making eye
contact. “I apologize for failing to inform my chain of command about
my change in status, ma’am,” he added tightly. “Doctor Phlox
repeatedly advised me to inform you but I urged him to keep this
silent. He is blameless in this matter.”

“I am well aware of Doctor Phlox’s discretion in
terms of medical conditions, Commander,” T’Pol said wryly. At his
disbelieving expression, she made a split-second decision to share a
tiny bit of her history with this man. They were, after all, far more
similar than he suspected. “Five years ago,” she stated calmly, “I
contracted a terminal neurological disorder and Doctor Phlox did not
reveal this condition to my commanding officer until it became
necessary.”

“I was cured by a Vulcan expert in the condition,”
T’Pol said. She gave the commander another look. “By Starfleet
regulation,” she said, “I am required to advise the captain of your
condition.” Eisler’s jaw tightened even further.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“As long as Doctor Phlox agrees that you are
capable of continuing your job,” T’Pol continued, “I see no reason why
you cannot remain tactical officer.” The commander blinked in mild
surprise. “This is predicated on the doctor’s continued approval,” she
said and he nodded.